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Play Dead, My Darling

[Jeff Ward]

T
HE DOGHOUSE IN
question was a slope-roofed affair out back, about as pretty and pretentious as a mud fence. I liked it. An honest little shack, probably the only one in California—the kind where you can stretch out and roll around and lick yourself without fear of
Architectural Digest
coming to poke around with a photographer. I lay there, still smarting in the flanks, with no plans for the rest of my life. I was seven years old and feeling forty-nine.

After a couple hundred years, the tassel loafers came out and kicked at the portico of the house.

“Come on—walk,” he said. “Go for walk.”

Chain off, leash on, and once again we were dragging each other around the bleached-out block between Sierra and Gardner. For the first time in my life the exercise felt hollow, even ridiculous, like a wild, romantic hump on your first day after being fixed. The other dogs on the walk were lurid and grotesque, and I saw only their sins. Prince, the Great Dane who had dragged three children into a burning building. Mr. Alexander, the Saint Bernard whose improvement on the traditional rescue had been to show up staggering with an empty cask, just in time to slobber on the dead. And Muggles, the mincing Dalmatian who yammered endlessly about his affairs with Asta and two of the Lassies. With a terrific effort I managed to make small talk with these parading champions and sniff their crotches.

And even this sorry spectacle was too good to last. At the corner of Gardner and Hollywood I spotted a familiar squat figure—a hatless woman holding a leash that trailed down and disappeared into a hedge. When she saw us, a jack-o’-lantern smile turned her big, angular face even more so. She had a skull that I could have picked out from a table full of skulls if I had to—which, given the week I was having, seemed a pretty likely scenario.

Then Sheba emerged from the hedge and there was no more past, only the blinding radiance of her innocence. She was like a pristine snowbank on a leash. It was just how the Virgin Mary would have looked if she had been a good deal holier and a Beagle. The blood hadn’t been washed from her coat—it had never been there.

Anyway, it was a good act. It fooled me. It would always fool me. Our owners chattered about the weather and their darlings. Our girl, I learned, had heartworms and was due in the shop for repairs at the end of the week. Sheba’s brown eyes leapt hopefully from one speaker to the next, politely avoiding me. I guess we’d never been properly introduced.

“Come on, now, Sheba—good girl!”

And the woman moved on, her little fur saint floating behind, and they were gone.

How could I have resisted her? How many others had looked into those eyes, at those wet black lips, and fallen over backward with their paws in the air? How many more would kill for her, just because she said the word? My advice to the heartworms: Don’t waste time looking, fellas. Find yourselves another bitch.

“Okay, s’ go home now, let’s go,” said Tassel, tugging me toward Sunset. “But if I have to throw out another rug, I’m throwing you out as well.”

It was naptime, but I wouldn’t be sleeping. I would be thinking of something that could have been—which is to say, of nothing at all. I had no plans and no plans to think of any. At three o’clock the mailman would come and I would burst through the doggie door and bite him hard enough to split his calf, but my heart wouldn’t be in it.

Where the Dogs Are

[Dan Zevin]

T
HE DOG PEOPLE
are the people who gather at dawn to throw saliva-soaked tennis balls around parks nationwide. A while ago, I wouldn’t have said they were my kind of crowd, as five
A.M.
was frankly not an hour with which I had much familiarity. But a while ago, I didn’t have Chloe, the orphaned Lab mutt who appeared frisky—as opposed to frenzied—when she first conned me into taking her home from the pound. To say that Chloe’s internal alarm clock goes off at five
A.M.
would be misleading, because it would suggest that she requires sleep. In fact, she requires Ritalin. Either that or forty minutes each morning with the dog people.

I feel very close to the dog people, though I do not know any of their names. We remember only the dogs’ names, you see. As for our identities, we’re just “Chloe’s father,” “Augie’s mother,” or “Sadie’s parents,” to name but a few. Our mission is the same: to chuck the tennis ball until Chloe, Augie, Sadie, and the rest collapse from acute canine exhaustion so they’ll spend the remainder of the day sleeping (or, in Chloe’s case, “resting”) rather than dining on our speaker wires.

The only time it is permissible to stop chucking the ball is when one of the dogs needs a time-out to “poop.” Canine excrement, I have learned, is referred to only as “poop” by the dog people. I once made the mistake of using a more colorful term, and was met by stunned silences all around.

But now that I’ve got the lingo straight, the other dog people and I talk every morning. We don’t small-talk, either. We engage in the kind of deep, meaningful conversation you can only have with someone who is outdoors at five o’clock (
A.M.
) using a plastic Star Market bag to pick up a pile of dog shit. Poop, I mean.

“Hmm, looks like Chloe has diarrhea again,” I proclaim.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Augie’s mother concurs. “Must be eating too much grass.”

“Sadie ate a washcloth last night,” interjects her father. “Vomited it up like a Super Ball.”

I cannot emphasize enough the significance of these morning chats. With each discussion of Sadie’s swollen anal sacs or Augie’s weakness for squirrels, I feel a little more connected; a little less like the only father in the city whose daughter does not come every time (okay,
any
time) she is called. Who else but the dog people would have clued me into the Drs. Foster and Smith catalog, featuring hickory-smoked Choo-Hooves at rock-bottom prices? Where else but at the dog field would I have learned that, when it comes to problem “hotspots,” the guck from an aloe plant is nature’s alternative to cortisone cream? We are all about support and sharing and honesty. Show us a playground full of real parents and we will make them look like amateurs.

One evening I saw one of the dog people at the Sir Speedy copy shop I go to. We were both without our dogs. We looked at each other in that fleeting way people do when they think they know each other but aren’t really sure. Then it occurred to me: Sadie’s mother! What was she getting copied? Where does she live? Has she seen any good movies lately? Both of us stood there stupidly by the lamination machine until I finally decided to break the ice.

“Uh, how is your dog?” I said.

It took a long time to find the canine clique that felt right to Chloe and me. In my neighborhood alone, there were three major scenes going on. We started at Fresh Pond Park, where most of the dogs seemed like they just came out of the Westminster Kennel Club, and most of their mothers and fathers seemed like they just came out of the Harvard Faculty Club. The dog people there didn’t really throw the tennis ball as much as they stood around observing the animals’ behavioral responses with regard to retrieval-avoidance pack interaction. Plus, a woman with a giant black poodle named Margaret asked me—swear on a stack of Drs. Foster and Smith catalogs—if Chloe “has a problem with ethnic diversity.”

Chloe, at the time, was barking at this guy who happened to be black. I immediately experienced that familiar self-consciousness that only we dog people understand: the sense that strangers are passing judgment on us based upon our dog’s behavior.
What has Chloe’s father been telling her about people of color to make his dog so prejudiced?
Margaret’s mother was obviously thinking about me. I felt ashamed, though I knew the truth: Chloe was barking because the guy had a tennis ball.

The dog people at Danehy Park were an entirely different breed. This was the salt-of-the-earth dog scene, and rarely did we see anyone with a purebred anything here, much less a poodle named Margaret. Danehy doggie mothers and fathers just chucked a few balls until they finished their cigarettes, then went home and got ready for work. The couple of times I actually spoke to any of them, we covered the customary subject of effluvia, of course, but they all seemed preoccupied with the man I’ve come to call “the bad guy.”

From what I gathered, the bad guy is some sort of official canine cop who protects parks from the threat of dogs who are not properly licensed. According to Bo’s mother, who was holding a load in a CVS bag at the time, the bad guy also issues fines to dog people whose pets are “off-leash.” I split this scene pronto, worried that I’d be booked on two counts: unleashed and unlicensed.

And so it was that I stumbled upon my doggie scene of choice: a lesser-known softball field abutting a parking lot and a graffiti-covered grammar school. We’re a misfit bunch, Sadie’s parents, Augie’s mom, and me, but we are going to be the next big thing, I tell you. Why, just this morning we were joined by a potential new member—Rocket’s mother—who found herself displaced when the Tufts football field was closed off to canines (surely by decree of the bad guy). I’m amazed at how well I got to know her in the forty minutes we spent chucking the ball and picking up poop. For example, Rocket has ear mites, is scared of luggage, and likes to sleep in the bathtub.

I hope she (and her son) will be back tomorrow, and will one day become permanent members of our little scene. For we are the dog people, and everyone is welcome. Everyone except the bad guy.

A Plea for Canine Acceptance

[Phil Austin]

A
S CANINE-AWARD
shows steadily flood the cable channels, you may have noticed that many popular breeds of dog are never officially recognized. These excited television programs feature the same panoply of carefully groomed animals dragging around oddly dressed humans of varying sizes on lengths of string as, over and over, the same old favorites—Labrador, Cocker, Pekinese, Shepherd (German and otherwise)—are awarded the prestigious trophies, as if they alone were the only worthy recipients of the public’s televised affection. (A side note: If this is a sport, then why can’t the human handlers wear at least warm-up suits and running shoes for a properly athletic look? Why dress like Rotary members and school-board supervisors? But, to my point…)

I’d like to suggest that it would be wise to take a look at some dogs whom innovative breeders and handlers are promoting these days and, indeed, some whom the public finds increasingly attractive. Please consider several newish breeds that I think deserve not only recognition and attention, but above all, love from people for whom dogs are something more than mere award-winners. These are valued family members with skills more directly tied to modern times than those outmoded skills celebrated by herding, sporting, toying, working, and terriering. The AKC may not find them worthy, but I think you will.

Nova Scotia Cell-Phone-Minute-Counting Retriever

A thoroughly modern breed of companion dog, this slim animal can keep track of minutes, make calculations up to nine places, remember calendar events, and store an extensive list of phone contacts. The Nova Scotia is friendly, flat, and colorful. The breed’s ability to take pictures without being seen has been found useful by the insurance industry. The Nova particularly enjoys running with children, especially on weekends and after five o’clock. It may charge an extra amount for an early termination of its plan.

Breed origins: Bred from the larger Flip Hounds and crossed with Hungarian Text-Messaging Herders, the Nova can be taken anywhere, though there is growing resistance to its presence at Broadway shows and intimate restaurants.

Day-Old Danish Pointer

Also known as the Rack Dog in its native Denmark, this marked-down favorite of the urban young is a rare favorite. Two colors, cheese and prune, give the breed a distinctive look. It can be trained to track wounded game and can be found, tightly packaged, even in places like Utah roadside mini-marts, but it most readily adapts to urban environments and has indeed been specially bred for them in Europe. A strong taste for sugar makes it unacceptable as an all-season outdoor dog, but indoors it becomes an excellent coffee companion. This is a thick-boned, hearty breed of modest habits. The dog enjoys the Sunday
New York Times
and can even make hopeful phone calls to attractive young women.

Breed origins: Descended from the Black Pastry Hound of central Europe, these dogs historically pointed at things in Vienna, particularly Puff Poodles.

Liberal Kansas Gundog

For the several hundred years in which black wild-eyed howling gundogs were active members of the Wild Hunt—ducking and retrieving, bullets flying overhead—it was presumed they were willing and able participants in that ancient Germanic ritual. But early gunpowder firearms were remarkably inaccurate, spewing fire and shot in all directions, and the traditional use of alcohol in the ritual continued unabated with the passing of years. Rumors swirled through the canine community in the 1700s that the number of loyal animals actually shot by drunken hunters was increasing at a rapid rate. In America, by the late 1900s, several strains of gundog began to exhibit traits that would eventually lead to the crossing of the Duck-Grabbing Retriever with the Cimarron Pointer by a breeder in western Kansas to create the Liberal Kansas. This is an extremely unusual gundog, naturally adept at taking guns away from hunters. The NRA has declared it to be an even greater threat than weeping inner-city mothers. The Liberal has been known to physically force inebriated hunters into twelve-step programs. It particularly enjoys digging shotgun-size holes for the burial of weapons.

Breed origins: Of an ancient lineage, the friendly Liberal may be ultimately descended from primitive Gimme Dogs in Wales and northeast Germany.

Bernaise Mountain Sauce Dog

The handsome Bernaise will guard ½ cup white wine vinegar and was historically used to draw carts filled with 5 shallots, minced, and at least 2 T. minced fresh tarragon. It is an excellent herding dog, particularly with ½ tsp. white pepper, but is equally willing to gather 4 egg yolks, ½ cup of boiling water, and even 1 cup of warm clarified butter. It uses its size and strength to beat constantly with a wire whisk. Keeping the butter at the same temperature as the egg mixture can modify a tendency toward unprovoked aggression.

Breed origins: An altogether ancient breed, it is said to be descended from the complex Hollandaise Dog.

Britney Mouseketeer Spaniel

This most popular breed enjoys worldwide renown, not the least of which comes from its distinctive seminudity combined with the charm of a relatively empty head. The dog excels in mindless whispering while performing cheerleading lap dances. It inhabits huge stadiums and Internet dreams, where it can be readily Googled. It should not drive an automobile. The standard is for the dog to be heavyset, notwithstanding its tendency toward bulimic behavior. Easily bred, waterproof, and steadfast, it will endure pointless marriages of very short duration.

Breed origins: The Britney almost died out in the early years of this century, but was reconstituted in larger form by determined American breeders. These dogs were originally used to haul in the floating nets of Armenian fishermen on the Elephantine Coast.

Iditarod Refugee Dog

This active Spitz-type dog, described by Jack London in
The Abysmal Race
(1919), is strong and athletic and will happily battle anyone in its pack at the flimsiest excuse. Still, this furtive charmer is frightened of sleds and will try to go south given any small opportunity. Shy and timid, it especially distrusts TV crews and has bad dreams about lonely athletic women who love dogs to the exclusion of everything else. One interesting trait is that of refusing to be numbered. The breed has been known to demand lucrative television contracts. At its worst, it simply runs away.

Breed origins: This large dog originated in motels along highways leaving Alaska. It was originally bred for hauling loads of bulk gold bullion in impossible weather at high speed with only minimal amounts of dog food available.

Insatiable American Food Hound

Now said to be the most common of all American dogs, the Insatiable is quickly gaining acceptance worldwide, thanks to the rapid proliferation of delicious dog food to all corners of the globe. This breed, more than any other, recognizes the urgent need for dog food and demands it upon every occasion. These animals can purchase airline tickets, rent cars, and open cans, especially the pull-tab variety, in their quest for more and more dog food. Certainly stalking is the ancient origin for this behavior, but the viewing of television food commercials—something this dog will do for hours—has largely taken the place of lynx, bear, and vermin hunting.

Breed origins: At one time, nearly every small town had at least one of these dogs. When each had two, and their sexes were not the same, expansion of the breed was inevitable.

[
A dog’s reasons are always reasonable to a dog.—Dan Liebert
]